October 25, 2006

This morning I lost my shit while attempting to open a little container of yogurt.

I grabbed the little tab thing and gave it a tug and the fucking thing splintered and ripped and by the time I concluded the “attempt” there was still a good 60 percent of the foil and paper covering the top of the fucking yogurt. You couldn’t fit a spoon into it in this condition.

So then I had to dig my fucking fingers into the half-ripped part and, piece by fucking piece, peel off the remaining foil/paper. Then I had to wash my fingertips because I got yogurt all over them.

Total time to open yogurt container enough to eat it: roughly 30 seconds. That’s fucking unacceptable.

I screamed “fuck” at the top of my lungs and, after washing off my fingertips, wadded up the used paper towels in a menacing fashion and SLAMMED them into the fucking garbage can.

I want fucking names and numbers of the people responsible for designing and manufacturing the packaging used for most consumer goods. I especially want to get my hands on the asshole(s) responsible for all the Goddamn inter-twisting wires that accompany any kind of fucking child’s toy.

Buy a fucking doll or a Teddy Bear and it’s attached by at least a dozen wire ties that are all knotted the fuck up in the back of the cardboard package it comes in.

It takes longer to open and untangle the fucking toy than it does for the kid to get tired of playing with it. What the fuck is going on here?

How about cereal? Yeah, cereal. Women seem to be able to open those fucking boxes just fine, leaving the tab undamaged and the top slats of the box more or less intact. When I open a box of cereal, it looks like it was done by chainsaw.

Don’t even get me started on the plastic bag inside the box. I fuck that up too, either ripping it in such a fashion that it all has to be put in a fucking Ziploc bag or just barely opening it enough for one or two Golden Grahams to pass through the opening. There’s no middle ground.

Dry cleaning is another nightmare. The long plastic bags and the fucking paper things that are on the hanger give me fits. I reach up into the closet, yank on the plastic and paper and then have to struggle with a couple shirts as if I were reeling in a fucking 1,200-pound Marlin.

How about condiments? Yeah, the fucking annoying plastic coverings on mustard and ketchup bottles. You know? The part that has to be opened underneath the part you screw off. Yeah, every time I tear one of those fucking things off, I get mustard all over me or the fucking counter. Mayonnaise. Why the plastic thing along the rim? I have to use a fucking steak knife to cut off the plastic in order to open the fucking jar.

Peanut butter is another real debacle. That aluminum fucking covering, they give you like a centimeter of pull tab for a piece of foil that’s five inches in diameter. Of course the fucking thing tears in mid-pull, requiring multiple yanks. Then, you have to do real tedious, fine-motor work to get that annoying strip of aluminum off the edge around the top of the peanut butter.

Let me take you through my personal packaging hell.

The goal, the fucking point of this particular exercise, was to barbeque (briquette) cheeseburgers, cook some tater tots in a conventional oven, mix a simple tossed salad and heat up some baked beans on the same oven.

OK. Problem #1 was the charcoal bag. I have held off on investing in a gas grill because I think food tastes better from briquettes. That and I’m deathly afraid of blowing up myself or my home fucking around with propane tanks. I’ve heard and seen various degrees of bullshit that can ensue from (mis)using the propane grill. I know it’s simple and safe but given my track record, I’d find a way to fuck it up.

Well, this briquette bag comes with one of those paper-thin pull string-type things that always break halfway across the top of the bag. Of course it fucking snaps. That means I have to dig into the thick part of the bag to rip it open. I pretty much always have chewed-down stumps for nails so this task is harder than it seems. I contemplate getting a fucking paring knife and stabbing into the bag to start a “tearable” opening but decide to just man up and muscle my fingers into the perforation to get it started.

Now that the briquettes have been freed from their bag and alit in the grill, I have to start doing the prep work. That means getting the fucking plastic “safety” coverings off the mustard, the ketchup, the fucking mayonnaise. This results in several splatters, particularly the mustard because the opening is so small that you have to give a disproportionate amount of force to the yank to get the fucking thing off.

One time, I pulled so hard, the plastic piece that you grab that should normally then tug the rest of the cover off was completely detached. That meant sticking the knife into the foil and then reverse-engineering the fucking thing off. That must have taken 5 minutes.

Anyway, the condiments are ready. Almost. Don’t forget about shaking up the ketchup and the mustard and then squirting a good spray or two directly into the sink. Am I the only one who does this? Ever gone to use the mustard and squirted that condensed water onto the bun of your hot dog or hamburger or sandwich bread? Fuck that sucks! I hate that. I will abort the whole fucking thing, toss the food in the garbage, reshake the mustard, squirt it into the sink and then start over.

Time to open the can of baked beans. Standard manual can opener. No problem. Until it comes time to take the severed metal lid off. It kind of sinks onto the top of the beans, right? I can’t just stick my finger into the side because I’m afraid of getting a horrendous cut from the jagged metal edge.

This fear, I’m sure, comes directly from an episode of “Schoolhouse Rock.” In one of the scenes, one of the characters cuts his hand opening a tennis ball can. The fucking blood comes spurting out and it made a HUGE impression on me that remains to this day.

Anyway, the baked bean lid is resting atop the beans and now I have to decide if I’m going to use a spoon or a butter knife to prop it up enough to grab it. I opt for the spoon and then I carefully remove the lid, throw it in the garbage and wash my fingertips. The beans are then poured into the cooking pot. But the beans never all come out in one dump, do they? Fuck no. So I have to use the fucking spoon to dig into the bottom of the can to get all the beans out. Invariably, this gets bean residue on the back of my fingers and hand, resulting in another wash and paper toweling.

The salad presents a whole other universe of problems. I usually go for the pre-packaged lettuce, health concerns be damned. But those bags are tricky. Pull too hard and the whole fucking plastic infrastructure breaks down, sending lettuce and radish and carrot shards spilling out onto the floor and counter.

The tomato has to be rinsed and dried with a paper towel. Then, the real problem. How the fuck do you properly cut a tomato anyway? The slices for the burgers are easy enough. But the dicing of the tomato for the salad confounds me. That middle part that’s not really liquid and not really solid fucking throws me. In the end, the tomato pieces that end up in the salad are essentially the rind of the fucking tomato.

The cucumber, after washing and drying by paper towel, has to be cut thin but not too thin. It’s an art. Too thick and people don’t like to eat them. Too thin and they have no substance or flavor to them.

I like to toss some black olives into my salad. Same problem as the baked beans. Metal lid opened by can opener. Dangerous edge! And you have to strain the olive juice. So I gingerly hold the metal lid and pour out the juice. Fortunately, the olive people have their shit together because those lids basically fall off by themselves.

Oh fuck, the tater tots! The package is frozen and the bag NEVER opens in a clean and even fashion. It’s another fucking ragged, half-assed job that looks like a third-grade art project by the time I’m done.

Let’s talk about the salad dressing. When did the salad dressing companies get together and decide they needed the thick-as-fuck protective seal around the edge of the bottle? If I had a thumbnail, I’d puncture the skin and then sort of work my thumb around the edge of that fucking barrier. But I don’t. So I have to grab a steak knife and do a little impromptu surgery to get that fucking thing open.

OK, now there’s the cheese for the fucking cheeseburgers. The Kraft singles require a modicum of dexterity, too. Ever rip one of those fuckers open and still have a corner or a whole edge still covered in the plastic wrapping? I do every time.

Last stop: Pickles. The sliced dill, hamburger-style variety. When was the last time you opened a pickle jar? Call me a pussy, but I struggle with those fuckers. I get it, usually on the first twist, but then the interior of my palm is throbbing for a good 20 seconds. More of a burn than a pull if you know what I mean.

Then I get to sit down and eat my fucking dinner. Which takes all of what, eight minutes?

August 26, 2006

Ever noticed how when two strangers are trapped in a confined space like an elevator or the waiting room at a place where they change your oil, both people go out of their way not to say anything or make eye contact?

Believe me. I’m not Mr. Friendly Chatty Guy. Frankly, I don’t even want to get into a conversation with most strangers. And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Why are we so afraid to make eye contact and chat up complete strangers?

Sure, we’ll say hi and hey or give the obligatory head nod. But people just fucking don’t want to talk to people anymore. It’s a fucking sad state of affairs.

But some situations require interaction. And some people are better at it than others. You know it when you see/hear it. Some people just have a knack for disarming strangers.

In these circumstances, I only have one fail-safe, fallback conversation starter.

“Hi. So, you’re on death row and you’re fresh out of appeals. What’s your last meal?”

I know it’s not particularly original or exciting but it fucking works. Feel free to rip me off.

Think about it. You’ve been in jail for like 20 years. You’ve been eating nothing but flavorless prison food for years. You’re about to fucking die. The only good thing that will ever happen to you again is the 10 or 15 or maybe only 2 minutes that you spend eating this penultimate meal.

It’s not a decision that anyone, fucking psycho or not, will take lightly.

I think this ice-breaker is so effective because it cuts right through race, class, gender, religion, economic and social classes. Every single person I’ve ever met not only knows about this strange custom bestowed on the condemned, but has actually given it some thought.

The clubhouse leader, in my random sampling, is fucking pizza. By a mile.

Not lobster. Not steak. Not even the ever-popular burger.

Nope. It’s fucking pizza.

It makes perfect sense. You might go out for a fancy meal every so often. Indulge in some salmon or pasta or Chinese or whatever, but when push comes to shove people fucking love pizza.

Drive around your community. From the mountains to the prairies to the oceans, there’s a pizza joint every six blocks. Maybe less. They’re everywhere. Think about how many pies are delivered everyday in this country.

There’s no question pizza is the definitive American meal. It’s entirely unhealthy. While there are many variations, most pizzas boil down to bread, meat and cheese. Tell that to the Atkins crowd.

But you can get a pizza with just about anything on it. There are fancy-boy places where they put prawns and fucking capers and ahi tuna on them. But pepperoni is still King. Take that to the fucking bank.

Off the subject: What else is fucking pepperoni good for? I’ve sliced it up and thrown it in with a spaghetti sauce but that’s about it. Pepperoni only exists in this universe to top pizzas.

Another great thing about pizza is you can get half of it one way and half of it another. I fucking double-dare you to name another meal where you can, for the same price, appease both the carnivore and the vegetarian with the same order. I haven’t tried it but I bet you could talk some places into doing quarter-pie orders. If you can’t yet, you will soon.

Pizza is portable. It’s flexible. You can have it anytime of the day. Who doesn’t love cold pizza in the morning? Order pizza for the office, you’re a fucking hero. Kids love it. The old love it. It’s a real fucking revelation.

For the record, I wouldn’t pick pizza for my last meal. I’d go traditional. I’d want a complete Thanksgiving dinner. A moist, tender turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. The rolls and the stuffing and the yams with fucking marshmallows and the fucking olives and the cranberries and the pies.

More than the taste, the food would remind me of good times. Of people I loved. Of times when the world magically seems to stop and we’re all reminded of why we bother living in the first place.

August 16, 2006

Yeah, sure, everyone knows you don’t talk politics or religion if you want to maintain any semblance of civility at a social gathering.

But it’s the common cigarette that really brings out the worst in people.

I don’t care what side you’re on, you’ve got an opinion about cigarettes, cigarette smoke and cigarette smokers. No one is ambivalent about smoking. It is THE polarizing social issue of our time.

So fucking funny in a country where one in three Americans is clinically obese, where 22 million are addicted to drugs or alcohol and where 20,000 of us are killed every year in some kind of alcohol-related traffic accident, it’s the cigarette that motivates ordinarily non-confrontational people to “get in someone’s face” in the name of protecting their health.

Look around your office, your social circle and your family. Smokers might have bad breath and teeth, but they’re loyal motherfuckers. They will hang out with each other, defend each other and make the extra effort to connect with one another in ways that non-smokers never would with others, smokers or not. Smokers have a bond.

Non-smokers, for the most part, will only “bond” in their shared disgust with smoking and smokers. That’s it. Everything else, they’re all over the board. But when it comes to smoking, they can definitely get behind stigmatizing those who smoke. It’s an easy position to take. After all, who could seriously offer a rational defense for smoking cigarettes?

Non-smokers pat themselves on their collective backs for agreeing that smoking is bad. So profound and enlightened are the non-smokers. Pure fucking genius.

Smokers are rocket scientists in their own right, ignoring undisputable scientific and medical data showing an absolute connection between smoking and lung cancer, heart disease, emphysema and just about any other respiratory ailment known to man. Yet, they proudly indulge in their disgusting, dangerous addiction even though it isolates them from some people and offends many others.

Smokers speak of their right to smoke and accept the risks. Non-smokers speak of the astronomical health-care costs associated with smoking-related illnesses that are footed by smokers and non-smokers alike. Smokers counter that the enormous taxes they pay on each pack of cigarettes more than offsets those health-care costs. And so on. And so on.

I’m not going to waste anyone’s time trying to argue the relative merits of either position. People take this smoking issue as seriously as they do religion or politics. It’s just not worth it to get into it.

Instead, I will share the eight, key observations I’ve made in the 15-plus years that I’ve been smoking:

1. Almost every non-smoker I know was a smoker at one point in his or her life. And, AND, I’d say at least one-third of these “non-smokers” have broken down and had a cigarette or two in my presence on multiple occasions.

2. Non-smokers, as a collective group, have more money and education than smokers as a collective group. However, the wealthiest people I’ve known and the smartest and most talented people I’ve known were, with very few exceptions, smokers. Smokers, in my experience, skew to the extremes. Lots of poor, uneducated, shady smokers.

3. Women who smoke are much more approachable and fuckable than non-smoking women. It’s just a fact. Generally, they have a more evolved sense of humor and tend to not take themselves so fucking seriously. Downside: they’re not so hot by the time they turn 40, they do annoying things like smoke in your bed and they often steal your cigarettes and lighters.

4. Smokers of either gender talk way too fucking much. They all have stories, long-winded monologues actually, that go on and on and often don’t have much of a significant point. Non-smokers are succinct, efficient and dress well.

5. A man who smokes and a woman who doesn’t smoke have a much better chance of making a relationship work than the reverse. For whatever reason, non-smoking guys just can’t stand women who smoke. Non-smoking women can be that militant but they’re usually more tolerant for reasons I’ve never really understood.

6. Non-smokers fall into two distinct camps when it comes to the smell of smoke. Either they love it because it reminds them of their glorious smoking past (a rare but enthusiastic group) or they HATE it because it reminds them of their glorious smoking past (a larger and even more enthusiastic group).

7. Never met a smoker of my generation who started because it was “cool” or made them “look older” or “feel grown up.” Almost universally, we started in either high school or college because we liked the buzz. It’s the truth.

8. Most smokers go out of their way to make sure their smoke doesn’t disturb anyone else. We’ve been imposing our own self-exile for years. And we’re fine with it. However, there are a handful of oblivious smokers who either don’t pay attention or don’t care if their smoke offends you. Even smokers don’t like these kind of smokers. But we’re usually too scared to tell them because the oblivious smoker tends to skew large and violent.

July 17, 2006

I'm incapable of understanding, sympathizing with or condoning people who leave bullshit tips.

This is coming from a guy who has NEVER worked in the service industry. I know that a lot of former or current bartenders, waiters, waitresses, etc. often say they "overtip" because they "know" what it's like to depend on gratuities for their income.

Whatever.

Here's the deal with tipping: If you can afford to go out to dinner or out for drinks, you can afford to tip the people serving you, cleaning up after you and, generally, doing everything you didn't want to do when you made your way to the restaurant or bar in question.

People say 15 percent is the appropriate amount to tip. They even have little "tipping" calculators built into cell phones for people who can't do the math. Many people I know simply "double" the tax on their meal to determine the appropriate amount for the tip.

Whatever. That 15 percent figure should be the starting point for any tip, not the entirety of it.

Nothing more embarrassing than going out to dinner with someone who insists on picking up the check and then proceeds to leave a paltry tip. That reflects poorly on everyone at the table, Jackass. These people have memories. They will remember you and, worse, they'll remember me. And if I ever go there again, eventually that person will serve me and will remember me as the guy who came with the guy who left a shit tip.

There are some people who hold firm to the bullshit notion that tipping is "optional" and should really only be done when the service is especially good. If you fall into this camp, you can go fuck yourself. Most of the people who really believe this shit are either very old or have been brainwashed by someone who's really old. That, or you're just a cheap fuck.

There's nothing wrong with being cheap. Just do it at home. If you really need to withhold the $5 or $10 it would take to make an appropriate-sized tip, then you really should have been at home eating the same meal with food you bought and prepared and cleaned up at a much lower cost.

For every overtipper like me (meaning I leave a tip of 25 percent or more just about everytime) there are 6 right-sized tippers (15 percent to 20 percent) and at least 3 undertippers (10 percent or less). I know because I see it all the fucking time. A fucking $36.75 bill arrives and you throw two 20s at it. Or you try to be clever and deduct the liquor portion of the bill from the dinner tab, leaving $15 on a $122 bill that included a $42 bottle of wine. You fucking piker!

Why do I give a shit what you tip? Because your lack of mathematics or proper social graces or just plain human decency directly affects the quality of service I will receive in the future. Tipping is really about trust. The server trusts that you're going to do the right thing and, therefore, provides the service. Sure, sometimes the service is shit. But 98 percent of the time it's at least good and, often, really good to outstanding.

How many times can you honestly expect a waiter or waitress to suck it up after getting 10 and 12 and 8 percent tips on his or her great service before finally deciding, "Fuck it" and offering either the bare minimum of service or, perhaps, shit service? It's human nature. You get burned over and over again, sooner or later it's going to affect your performance and attitude.

Anyone who makes the "budget" argument when defending a 10 percent tip is a fucking loser. Anyone who is serious about their "budget" needs to start buying groceries in bulk and preparing them at home. Dining out should never be part of any "budget." And if it is, you should "budget" in the fucking 15 to 20 percent tip. If that means Applebee's instead of Ruth's Chris, then that's what it means.

You don't want to cook and you don't want to tip, go to fucking McDonald's. Do you fucking hear me?

Final note: Every once in a while, I end up in a fucked up scenario where there's a large group of people dining out together. We're talking six to 10 or more people. And the fucking bill comes. And everyone makes the obligatory scan of the bill before tossing their cash onto the table or inside the little folder holding the bill.

First of all, if you have to look at the bill to "remember" what your fair share is, you're a fucking shithead. You saw the price on the menu. This isn't your first trip to a restaurant. You know there's tax. You know there's a tip. You know that your beverage isn't free. Fucking step up and do it right.

That means, for example, if you order a $15.99 entree and a get a $1.99 soda, your total "share" of the bill isn't just $17.98. The $20 bill you begrudgingly threw into the pile doesn't cover your "fair share" of the total bill. Not even close.

If every asshole (and usually every asshole DOES do this) did that, then whomever ends up with the bill last is going to be fucking furious when he or she has to either A) make up the difference themselves B) fucking degrade themselves by asking everyone to reassess their contribution to fulfill the real cost of the bill or C) fuck over the waiter or waitress who just busted his or her ass for the last hour and a half meeting all the fucking silly-ass demands of your inordinantly large party.

That adults need to be taught this lesson sums up why I avoid any "group" lunches or dinners at all costs. People take leave of their senses and decency in large groups on the theory, I guess, that somehow "everyone" else will figure it out and make it right.

Back to you, the asshole who just forked over a $20 bill to cover your $15.99 pasta dish and your $1.99 iced tea. That's a total of $17.98. We're not going to talk about any "group" appetizers that are usually ordered. We're going to keep it simple.

So, you're on the hook for $17.98 worth of food and drink. Now let's add the tax at 8.25 percent, another $1.48. Now you're responsible for $19.46 in "hard" costs. Now, let's talk about the tip. For groups of a certain size, it's common for the restaurant to affix a set gratuity rate at 15 percent. Sometimes more. Regardless, if you're a fucking decent human being, you as a member of this large group should leave AT LEAST a 15 percent tip. So, 15 percent of $19.46 is $2.92. bringing your total responsibility to $22.38. Not $20. Not $21.

Now, let's take a look at what happens if the first 9 of 10 people in your party were to follow your shit-ass accounting practices. If all nine are $2.38 shy of their real obligation, the last fucking person to assess the bill has a problem. For the sake of simplicity, let's say all 10 people ordered the exact fucking same meal. $15.99 seafood alfredo and $1.99 iced tea. That's it.

The 10th person sees the subtotal for food and drink is $179.80. Tax, at 8.25 percent, is another $14.83, bringing the pre-tip total to $194.63. After everyone else has taken their turn eyeing the tab and putting their $20 bill inside the folder, there's a total of $180 in there awaiting the last person's contribution. If he or she throws in $20 also, that will leave $5.47 for the server, a whopping tip of 2.8 percent. That or the last person has to either hassle everyone else to chip in more cash or make up the difference his or herself.

June 14, 2006

I hope you enjoyed the one or two curled chunks of deep-fried trans fat that you managed to fit into your beak before you abandoned the full 4 oz. bag, leaving a buffet of salty, corn-flavored treats for the half dozen or so gutless pigeons that rode your coattails.

I saw you first, you son of a bitch.

I knew why you were there and what your intentions were.

What other business could you have been conducting at 2 in the afternoon from a concrete bench located in the center of a park in the middle of a major metropolitan city?

You were wearing a fluffy white vest and a jacket made of grayish-black feathers. No shoes. You had a disproportionately large and crooked yellow beak and were wide-eyed, constantly turning your head from side to side.

Did I make you nervous?

I wasn’t.

I sat down just a few feet away from you. I don’t know what the fuck you were doing before I got there but I’m sure it was nothing the world would miss if I took the bag I was holding and smashed it into your fucking skull.

I bet you wish you could have some of my food. That would be nice, wouldn’t it you fucking freeloading piece of shit?

I admit that I was a little surprised that you didn’t immediately flee the scene when I started thrashing about inside the bag. I was very loud, there weren’t many people around and there’s no way you could have predicted my behavior. Maybe I had a gun in the bag.

I could have punched you, kicked you, raped you and gotten away with it. You think your word would hold sway in a court of law?

But you didn’t flinch. I took note of that.

In retrospect, I should have flung my arms at you and yelled something like ‘Fuck off!’ to call your bluff. I thought about it. But I didn’t follow my instincts.

You were a veteran of the park. You knew how to play me.

I opened the Fritos and ate exactly two of them. I set them down next to my soda and began digging through the bag for the sandwich. I was watching you closely. And you me.

For just a second, I considered reaching into the bag and tossing you a couple chips. Then I thought better of it, realizing that you’d never be satisfied. Next it would be the bread, then the ham, then the fucking soda. You’re all alike. You didn’t want a hand up. You want a hand out.

I’m not sure what it was that caught my attention. Maybe a gust of wind or the unmistakable click-clack of a woman’s heels. It doesn’t matter.

I turned my back on you for a full second or second-and-a-half at most.

I heard you.

When I turned back around, I must have scared the shit out of you because you jumped backwards from the cement bench and flapped your wings as best you could considering you had the ENTIRE BAG of Fritos clutched in your nasty beak.

I had to laugh as you struggled to lug the bag a good 10 or 15 feet away, looking back at me with each awkward hop. I begrudgingly admired your balls. You went for the big score and were rewarded.

The handful of other people who witnessed your theft laughed too.

But then you did something that wasn’t so funny. You dumped out all the chips and then let the bag go, letting a gust of wind carry it end-over-end for a good 40 feet. Thanks to your theatrics, I was identified as the original owner of the Fritos and, therefore, was technically responsible for retrieving what had now become litter.

So, not only did you steal from me but you also made me an accessory to litter. I put down my sandwich and scampered after the empty bag, picked it up and threw it away. By this time, you’d left the corn chips to the pigeons and moved on to casing other visitors.

I fought back tears throughout this whole nightmare. I wanted those corn chips. They were mine. And you took them from me and they’re a part of my life that I can never get back. I’ll never be whole again. I can never get those corn chips back.

I’m sure you were delighted by what transpired next. The wind had picked up and I had to put my soda, sans lid because I don’t use fucking straws, on top of my empty bag to keep from doing the loose-paper rodeo yet again.

No sooner did I sit back down to eat the only thing left of my fucking $7 Combo meal when a huge gust of wind got underneath the bag with enough velocity to upend the ¾-full cup of soda. Ice and precious carbonated water spilled all over the fucking place.

That was it for me. I picked up the bag, the empty cup and the half eaten sandwich and threw them in the garbage, too. Fuck it.